


Weak My Love, And Wanting

by Chantress



Series: And Yet Here We Are [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Have Some OT3 Feels, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Bondage, Multi, No Dialogue, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Timeline What Timeline, Yennefer and Jaskier's Relationship Status Is “In Cahoots With”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22403110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress
Summary: It's become something of a tradition, the three of them fucking when Geralt returns from his latest battle.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: And Yet Here We Are [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614133
Comments: 20
Kudos: 469





	Weak My Love, And Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to state for the record that I didn't exactly _want_ to be in this fandom, but then it showed up at my house and assaulted me in the feels ~~and the libido~~ , and now I guess I live here? :P
> 
> Even so, this fic would not have happened without the late-night headcanoning and general egging-on of certain people in the Podfichat Discord server, whose spitballed not!fic ideas I've shamelessly borrowed and expanded upon. You all rock! <3

It's become something of a tradition, the three of them fucking when Geralt returns from his latest battle.  
  
Well, after he's bathed properly, of course. Blood, mud, and monster guts are less than arousing, as Yennefer's stated more than once with an arch sniff. (Jaskier just shrugs and says Geralt's smelled worse than that, but not often, and not by much.)  
  
The bath is part of the tradition, too. Yennefer and Jaskier will join him, plying Geralt with kisses more heated than the water until their need becomes too much to bear and they drag Geralt out of the tub and into bed without bothering with towels in between. Or Yen will sit outside the tub and scrub at stubborn patches of filth on Geralt's hide, keeping up a steady litany of curses to punctuate the composition of Jaskier's latest ballad.  
  
The sex afterwards, though... Geralt would swear his lovers spend all their free time plotting new ways to torment him with pleasure. It's the only explanation for their coordination and ingenuity. Not that he's complaining.  
  
Yennefer has a collection of toys for these occasions, already impressive at the beginning of their acquaintance, but now greatly enhanced by Jaskier's constant "contributions to the cause," as he calls them. Wherever they travel, the bard will insist on making a stop at some discreet shop or other (and how _does_ he always know where to find these places, anyway? Geralt wonders; it's an almost magical knack) and coming out with a small box or a bag that then disappears into Jaskier's pack, not to resurface again until the three of them have a long, leisurely evening together to break in whatever new curiosity Jaskier's unearthed this time.  
  
The crown jewel of this collection, however, is one Yennefer procured on her own: an impressively proportioned phallus of polished wood set in a harness of leather, enchanted to provide the wearer with the same sensations as if it were their own living flesh. There's a certain fell light in Yennefer's eyes when she wears it, and it's all Geralt can do to hang on to the tattered scraps of his sanity in the face of the pleasure of her splitting him open with it, hard and merciless, while Jaskier gasps out encouragement to them both, his hands buried deep in Geralt's hair, his cock buried deeper in Geralt's throat.  
  
That particular delight has never felt farther away from reach than it does this night, though.  
  
Geralt is no stranger to weariness or injury. (Or should that be, weariness and injury are no strangers to Geralt? They have been his only real companions for so much of his life, after all.) But tonight they go deeper than anything that can be cured with potions or bandages or a few hours of sleep. Geralt's very soul (if he has one) feels raw and bruised, leaden with fatigue. It makes him shorter than usual with Jaskier, snapping at his lover's cheerful suggestion of a good meal and a quick fuck to celebrate Geralt's latest victory.  
  
Yennefer watches this exchange, but says nothing, and somehow her silence is more chastening than any words could be. She jerks her head towards the door of their room, and Jaskier hastens after her, already loudly putting forth the case for Yennefer taking _his_ side rather than Geralt's in this matter. The door clicks shut behind them, and Geralt sinks lower in his bath, swiping listlessly at a crust of dried blood with the washrag and wishing he knew what exactly had gone wrong this time.  
  
Yennefer and Jaskier haven't returned by the time Geralt hauls himself out of the tub, cleaner but no more settled in his mind than when he got in. They haven't returned by the time Geralt finishes picking at the cold supper he scraped together from the remains of the supplies in his pack, more from the need for something to do than any real hunger. And they haven't returned by the time Geralt slips into an uneasy doze, alone in the middle of the broad bed the three of them should have been sharing.  
  
It's the whisper of silk against his skin that shocks Geralt awake, rather than the presence of his lovers. (And isn't it disturbing to realize he's grown so used to them that his senses no longer warn of their approach?) Yennefer silences his gasp with a kiss, deep and lingering, and she finishes tying the scarves around Geralt's wrists, and then to the headboard.  
  
Geralt could break free in an instant (although given Yennefer's powers, that's not necessarily a guarantee if she _really_ wanted to keep him restrained), but he allows this, flexing his hands experimentally, testing the bonds. The silk is heady with her scent, and Geralt knows without needing to look that these scarves are not from Yennefer's hoard of esoteric toys, but ones she wears regularly, next to her skin. The thought wrings a groan of longing out of his throat, almost deep enough to be a growl.  
  
Jaskier swallows this sound with his own mouth, that clever tongue sliding against Geralt's much more languidly than the bard's usual wont, and Geralt can feel Jaskier smiling into the kiss even as he pulls away. Geralt wants to protest the loss, but Jaskier's lips are still a whisper's-breadth away, breathing soft puffs of warm air against Geralt's own, so Geralt subsides, not quite relaxed, but beginning to be curious. Usually by this point, Jaskier would be chattering away about all the things he wanted to do to Geralt (and have Geralt do to him), unless Geralt had preemptively found something more productive for Jaskier to do with his mouth. So what...?  
  
Yennefer interrupts this train of thought with another kiss of her own, while Jaskier nibbles down Geralt's neck, licking and nuzzling and making small noises of contentment. Geralt decides that maybe trying to tease apart their motives is overrated, at least when said motives produce _these_ sorts of results, and relaxes into their ministrations.  
  
Geralt isn't sure how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? An eternity? All sense of time melts away under gentle hands and lips moving lovingly over every inch of him, slow and inexorable as the tide, so in tune with each other it seems to Geralt as though he's being caressed by one many-limbed lover instead of two working in concert.  
  
A hand circles Geralt's cock, and he's so far gone in sensation that he can't tell which of them it belongs to until that hand guides him into soft, wet heat, and he hears Yennefer's moan of satisfaction. Geralt slits his eyes open (when had he closed them?) to watch her sink down further, her face fierce with her own need, but taking him inside so, so _slowly_...  
  
It must be Jaskier's hands that press Geralt's hips down against the mattress, preventing him from thrusting up and ending this torment, because Yennefer's hands are skating feather-light over Geralt's chest, brushing reverently over scars and teasing his nipples into aching peaks. Geralt trembles and keens, but gives up on trying to set the pace to anything but what Yennefer desires. And what she desires, apparently, is a long, languid fuck of the sort neither of them usually have the taste for.  
  
Yennefer doesn't usually have the taste for Jaskier's more hands-on assistance when Geralt's inside her, either, which tends to result in Jaskier sitting off to one side while they fuck, stroking himself as he waits for his turn with Geralt. And when they're all making love together, Geralt is firmly in the middle, and any touches shared by his two lovers are incidental, unremarkable.  
  
But now... _now_ Jaskier has slipped up behind Yennefer, reaching around to cup her breasts as he murmurs something in her ear. She laughs breathlessly, lifting her hands to cover his, and tilts her head just _so_ , and Jaskier maps a trail of kisses along the length of her neck, suckles on her earlobe, nips at her shoulder...  
  
And Geralt is _gone_ , lost in the feel of Yennefer slick and sweet around his cock, the sight of Jaskier touching her, how _beautiful_ the two of them are together... He gives himself up to pure sensation, drifting in it, dissolving into it until he no longer remembers what it is to be apart from it, to be a creature of jagged lines and razor-edge angles and tightly-wound vigilance always looking for a chance to spring.  
  
His orgasm, when it finally comes, is almost an afterthought, a grace note in the symphony of pleasure his lovers have been playing on his body. Jaskier and Yennefer hold Geralt tight through it, smoothing their hands over him as he shakes from relief and overstimulation and the sheer astonishment of being cared for so thoroughly.  
  
After, Yennefer unties the scarves from around Geralt's wrists, bringing his hands to her mouth to kiss them gently as Jaskier wipes the worst of the sweat (and various other interesting fluids) from all three of them with a soft cloth. Geralt is half asleep already, but he tries to say something (thank them, maybe?); Yennefer just shushes him and tucks a blanket around them both, cuddling in close as Jaskier does the same on Geralt's other side.  
  
The feeling that's come in the wake of their lovemaking is unfamiliar, elusive as a strand of spider silk and twice as fragile. But if Geralt had to put words to it, as sleep laps warm and seductive at the edges of his mind, he thinks it might be...  
  
...Trust.  
  
...Safety.  
  
_..._ _Home._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Weak My Love, And Wanting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22929220) by [BabelGhoti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabelGhoti/pseuds/BabelGhoti)




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